Crinkles of your eyes , warm winter sun ; filter through my windows , on mornings when my shell is not ready to drag itself upright . I drop pieces of me , all over my apartment , leaving proofs of my disintegration . You pick them up and make bracelets out of the chunks of my medulla , i wear it in hopes of injecting a few drops of life into me . Cotton candy contours , orange tint of your embrace , everything you touch , drips with honey and a whole lot of moonlight . I don't know how to touch the delicate crystal of your skies and not break it , so i gaze at it and fill myself up with hopes of something , anything , good . My teeth know the stains of blood , I have not tasted anything except death ever in my mouth , and you feed me spoonfuls of affection and patience , i gulp it down and try to remember the taste . How am I supposed to breathe the twelve kinds of love you drop in my hands passing by , i have only ever inhaled a dying smoker's exhale ? So i put chunks of it in mason jars and stack them on my kitchen rack , one after another for when i again break in splinters , I could use them to glue myself back together and wait for you .
after all the church bells have faded , every sense of time lost . Stacks of broken promises stuffed in old bookshelves and bruises the colour of ink stains have made home in the expanse of my skin , the snow globe of existence juggled with and shaken so hard it refuses to settle .
After clouds of insanity finally mixed with Cigarette smoke and got inhaled , heavy thuds of heart clutched in sharp claws receded to faint whispers , slow curves of body turned into hard ice cold rocks and stale wine seeped through doorjambs , after explosions have ended , fragile limbs rot knee deep in debris
after autumn left everything dry and demons inside the bed crawled up and on my neck , after the ivy leaves slytherd through my pores and filled my veins with saturated cynicism , after all the chants succumbed to silence and voices rose to scream the unspeakable , after the last thread of sanity snapped and the apocalypse took it's roots ,
Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra ? Now your blessedness appears ?
The last line was written by Dante Alighieri in " The Divine Comedy " for his beloved Beatrice .
You look at me with hazy eyes cramming a whole lot of moonlight in them . And I drink it all in hopes of having a little more of you inside me ; You corrupt me but I cling to you like a twichy addict needing her fix .
Those icy blue drapes over the windows have seen more damage than old withered eyes , skin melting off bones and strangulated cries of the birds outside . None of this compares to when you exhale smoke from your bruised lips and I suck it right in me as a life source transferring between two people who smell of death .
There are no more poems left in me , so instead I dedicate eulogies to you , heavy handshakes are exchanged between our drooling demons . You kiss the inside of my palm and your lips scorch me , you trail your fingers along my neck and my jugular cries in agony . I crush you harder , to the point where none of us can breathe . Love , with you is a double bladed knife and I know you need the stinging burn as much as I do , so I cling to you like a twichy addict needing her fix .
Click Clack of your stilettos is all I get in the name of a warning bell before my bones crumble against each other and I form a pool of regret and mistakes near you feet , flowing under the doorjambs and forming a straight rail of guilt identical to yours , just white . You lurk in the shadows and whisper my name like a sinful chant used to summon the devil , and I come , offer myself right at your feet like the sacrificial lamb I am and you wear the crimson trail left by my wrists on your lips and form a smile so identical to mine , for a moment I look for myself in your Auburn eyes , but look back at my feet after finding nothing except a void so huge it can swallow me and spit nothing out . I lick my wounds and you sit over me pouring brine on every cut , every slash . Scars are permanent , Dermis jagged , Would I find anything to camouflage the evidence of a massacre ? You walk over my burning corpse and sing songs about murders and Virgin girls while the hiss of fire accompanies your melody and I lick the remnants of my own limbs off the floor . They call the hollow mould your skin is , the root of my existence , and I lick a knife in hopes of not being able to utter a word , but I scream , I still scream because I am not an individual , I am a mass of your regrets tied together in a skeleton and my hands are sweaty , slippery , too weak to hold on the thread of sanity left . I can't kill you , but I have tasted copper at the back of my throat everytime I uttered your name I'd wish you the day but you sliced off my tongue and stepped on my throat . Mommy , Mommy you bitch , Happy Mother's Day .
- Ruhii .
I was trying not to make mother's day sour so i posted it today .
I don't write cynical poems when I'm infatuated with someone . I write tender , soft , caressing , almost-love poems . The habit of pouring myself completely in the vessel of another has a choking hold on me , and in those moments , I don't complain . I write ; because that's all I know how to do . To liquify myself and flow inside a man's habitat , and make a puddle near his feet , and look at him like my eyes are deprived of beauty , beauty that only drips from his pores . I drink it all in and pat myself on the back for not writing another pessimistic poem when I could've . A touch , A blink , a caress and I'm a goner worshipping my muse . And then , just like a lie swirling around me , it fades . The almost-lover leaves like he was never there and the aftertaste stays with me like ink stain . I've collected ink stains all over my heart . So much ,it now looks like midnight sky without the stars , but I still have places to write poems upon , poems dripping with fear and nightmares , anxiety and murders ; and I'll go back to not writing them when I find another vessel to pour myself into .
Meet me somewhere forbidden again , maybe I'll omit the almost from all of my love poems . Meet me again . I might be a cynical poet but I don't mind writing love for now .
- Ruhii .
What do you call a person who is in a huge bubble of misconception , thinking she's a poet ? Nothing . You call her nothing , You skip her poem and keep scrolling .
Your bare skin brushes mine and a trail of blazing fire , races down my spine . We look at each other and the edges of the world turn soft , shadows blurring in grey patches . A song ends and you shove your hands in my hair , and bring me to you like you need it for survival . We devour each other , trying to blend in together , sucking the life source right out until I can't decide where you end and I start , our existences merge together like two starkly different colours on a pallet .
I am a mixture of all the people who left me , I'm a product of insecurities . I've yet to learn how not to paint myself in the colours of every person I've ever loved . My apartment smells of coffee and books , and I am just another inanimate object waiting for the life to drip out of me through rough poetries . Rain thunders on my window and I pick up pieces of my scorched love and make bracelets out of them , in hopes to pull out a whole string from the tangles on my wrists .
Lately I've been reading the gloomy tales of poets who held tragedies in their lives and had the privilege to end it themselves . Would I ever be one of them ? Maybe I am not a poet , maybe I'm a torn , stepped upon squeezed heart , pulled out of a still warm body trying to put into letters and words and phrases what it was like to be surrounded with your smell , what it was like to slip out of your knuckles when you held too tight , what it was like to paint stars on your back ?
Someday , I'll learn how to keep myself tinged with a single shade . Someday .
I feed on cynicism and you're a vile of powdered melancholy .
I keep a handful of grief in my breast pocket to feed my demons evey time i encounter you because you , my friend , are a product of reality and reality , burns me . We look across the table at each other amidst the chaos , our coffee slowly turning into tar and i see before my eyes as you fight and lose a battle in your head .
I am no Dante but I've had a taste of Inferno on my tongue and you smell exactly like the aftertaste it left . Tell me friend do you ever think Juliet was a cruel lover or you just pity her , because I find myself on the center stage waiting for the death to swallow me . We have turned into different phantoms , but i witness life trickling out of me in your presence , you look like you just got promised a massacre .
Plath never realised she had no choice but to die . So when she finally died , People called her a maniac depressive someone who was too wrung out to care that she was leaving two children behind !
They called her sick , because she chose an abnormal way to kill herself . What do you think of when I say suicide ? Tight ropes ? Dirty Ceiling fans ? Railway tracks ? Uncontrolled cars ? Rusting blades ? Hard pillows ? But she , Put her thoughthouse in the same microwave , she probably used to feed her children just eight hours ago !
Nobody dares to choke over her husband's name who dedicated love poems to her , and proceeded to carve syllables with his tongue on another bare stomach , the next night Nobody .
But what they don't realise is she stuffed towels in the doorjambs of her children's room . To keep them alive .
Painting promises , with a loose strand of raven black hair , dripping with colours of insomnia and addictions. Licking the blood off teeth , and flaunting the crooked smile for all that's worth .
Shredding bones in hopes to make a fine powder , to fill up all the cracks , holes in medulla . Broken mirrors reflecting all the flaws and chipped skin , vast nakedness .
For once , when you try to find a way out , the chains just tighten around your throat . There's no way in sight , just the hollow darkness and all consuming suction . A claustrophobic concentration of nerves and electricity , sucking all the life right out like a parasite .
Flowers wither in a room of black walls built over graveyards of all the people my conscience murders on a daily basis . You will keep feeling the crawling spiders on your limbs till you dissolve in the poison .
- Ruhii .
Kids , this is what writing furiously when you obviously can't results in . Also , Happy Birthday to Mom 2.0 @rani_shri , I love you ❤️
We stumble inside the library , to find new chunks of fiction because reality, my friend , isn't something people willingly choose . You kiss me furiously and the hardbound Crime and Punishment , rattles on the shelf above . Dostoevsky is watching the lust fueled , mad passionate , love . Love that burns so hard one moment it sears your palm , and fades in shadowy smoke the next . The edges of world are grey and blurry , windows don't do justice to the intensity of rain . You look at me and sketch a galaxy on my throat with your eyes . Brownstone eyes . What do you want to read , lover ? Something grave and dry and horrifying you say . How about past ? But you can't read that , because poets like you and me , we don't read what we made ourselves , it feels like pressing a tender bruise again just to feel the lick of pain . So for now , settle on Hemingway , why don't you . And when the rain ends , kiss me again under Pride and Prejudice this time , and feed me lies , delicious lies , about how love is eternal . Would you ?
Whenever I forget the path, You show me the way, Your single smile for a moment, Makes my whole day, In the game of my life, You are my only win, In the world full of temporary happiness, Maa, you are my permanent grin.
मुझे डॉक्टर के यहाँ जाने से डर लगता है। मैं उसके कैबिन के बाहर बैठा होता हूँ तो दिमाग में रहता है की वो ऐसी कुछ दवाई दे जो मुझे कड़वी ना लगे। या फिर ऐसा कोई इंजेक्शन जो मुझे चुभे ना। ऐसा कुछ होता है क्या तुम्हारे प्रेम के अलावा जो मुझे दर्द पर कुछ महसूस ही ना हो। शायद किसी भी डॉक्टर के पास इश्क़ का इंजेक्शन नहीं होता वरना दुनिया में कोई बीमार ना बचा होता।
एक हफ्ता होने को आया है पर तबियत अभी भी ठीक नहीं है। सोने जाओ तो पेनकिलर लेना पड़ता है। पर अब उससे भी आराम नहीं है। मुझे तुम्हारी यादें बेहतर लगती हैं किसी भी पेनकिलर से। तुम्हारे जाने बाद भी तुम्हें किसी भी तरह इस्तेमाल करना सही तो नहीं है पर फिर भी और कुछ है नहीं जो मुझे आराम दे। तुम्हें सोचने भर से लगता है माइग्रेन मेरा ठीक हो गया है। हालांकि दिया भी तुमने ही है। 'तू ही दवा है, तू ही मर्ज़' काइंड ऑफ़ लव।
वैसे तुम्हारी यादों का सहारा लेना गलत है पर मुझे बुरा नहीं लगता। जानती हो अतीत की उँगलियाँ प्रेम से भी महीन होती हैं। वो सिर्फ उतनी जगह छूती हैं जितनी छूने पर आपको आराम मिलता है या फिर घाव। तुम घाव हो या आराम नहीं पता। शायद दोनों। टाइम टू टाइम इट डिफरस यू नो। लगता है कभी तुम को फ़ोन करूँ और कह डालूं की प्रेम के अंत होने पर प्रेमी डॉक्टर बन जाता है। वो आपको बचा भी सकता है और मार भी। पर तुम सिर्फ मुझे बचाने के काम आते हो। रातों में शून्य से ध्यान भटका के अपने तरफ मोड़ लेते हो और मेरी रातें यूँ ही बीत जाती हैं। पर लगता है की तुमको ये सब बताऊंगा तो कहीं ये हक़ भी ना छीन लो। खैर तुम भी गलत नहीं होंगी। किसी अनजान के लिए कोई इतना कहाँ करता है।
मेरे दिल के एक कोना सुन्न-सा पड़ गया है। ऐसा दर्द या तो प्रेम दे सकता है या मूव-ऑन। लगता है अब डॉक्टर के पास जाना ही पड़ेगा। जीवन में हर चीज़ का इलाज नहीं होना चाहिए। कम से कम प्रेम का तो बिलकुल नहीं। पर घर वालों ने कहा की अब हॉस्पिटल का एक चक्कर लगा ही लो।
It is about the time when recharging your phone isn’t as easier as it is now. Paytm and Phonepe all have made it so easy that it kinda make me feel jealous but the lazy side of me is happy as hell.
Baat us samay ki hai jab recharge karane ke liye recharge wale uncle ki dukaan pe jaake 10 ya 20 rupay ka coupon lekar aate the.
You remember every colony has that RECHARGE WALE UNCLE ki shop. Bringing those coupons home and scratching it using a 1-rupee coin. Lagta tha aaj shayad usme code nhi likha mile. Aaj to shayad cycle ya cricket bat mil jaye .
Code ki muh-dikhai hone ke baad use jaldi-jaldi USSD me type karna padta tha. And if you don’t succeed in one go, we would have to type the code from starting. The struggle only Millennials know very well. I loved typing that code in one go. It used to be my new game as soon as it arrived in the market. Shayad isi wajah se mujhe meri superpower ke baare me pata chala.
I used to memorize even long numbers very quickly. Itna shauk tha ki coupon ko scratch karne se pehle hi USSD code type karke rakhta tha. Fir saamne se computer wali aunty bolti thi, “Apna 16 anko ka recharge coupon darj kijiye” then I used to type that code with the speed of bullet. Fir saamne se jab aunty dobara bolti thi, “Aapka recharge safalta purvak kiya jaa chuka.. Aapki bakaya raashi hai 7 rupay aur 95 paise” wo sunne ka jo anand hota tha shayad hi kisi aur cheez se milta.
Saamne wali Satya Aunty, right side ke pados wali Pooja ma’am aur left side ke pados wale Ranbir Uncle ka recharge to har baar mere haathon se hi hota tha. Mammi-Papa to kehte the, “Aisa kar dukaan wale uncle ke pass hi job karle.” Jabki wo recharge wale uncle khud ek baar me sahi se wo 16 digits daal hi nhi paate the.
Itna talented hone ke baad bhi kabhi ghamand nhi kiya paaji.
Numbers yaad rakhna is not always beneficial. Kisi mahan insaan ne sahi kaha hai,
“With great power comes great INCONVENIENCE”
Ab number yaad karne ki aseem shaktiyon ki wajah se saare padosi mujhe hi bhejte the dukaan pe. (Har colony me ek ladka hota hai na jise saare Pados wale kaam karwane ke liye dukaan pe bhejte hai.. Wo main hi hu.... Aur baad me kuchh inaam dete hai ki ye le toffee le liyo, haan aise padosi nhi hai hamare.. Sab chindi chor hai).
They were like,
“Ja Udit ye le 50 ka recharge karwa de..
Number to tujhe yaad hi hai ... Hehehehe”
Sabka recharge karawana bada boring task ho gaya tha.
Ab isko interesting kaise banaya jaye?
Kabhi-Kabhi coupon na hone ki wajah se hame phone number likhwana padta tha.
Uncle ke pass ek register hua karta tha jispe bina coupon wale customers ke number likhte the.. To jab bhi recharge wale register khulne ka number aata
tab pata nhi kaunsa keeda mujhe kaat raha tha ki main har roz 1-2 number yaad karke aata tha.
Jaise teacher ne homework diya ho.
12 mahine me 25 phone number yaad kar liye the.
Aur unhe bhool na jau isliye baar baar repeat bhi karta rehta tha.
Ek din recharge ki samaj seva se ghar lauta to dekha Khadus wali Shashi aunty ghar me baithi hai.
Sabki colony me ek khadus aunty hoti hai na jinke ghar me ball chali jaye to wapis nhi karti.
Usse 10 guna khatarnak hai Shashi aunty.
Unke ghar me ball chali jaye to wo rakhti nhi thi..
Chakku garam karke hamare saamne hi ball kaat deti thi..
Ham bacche 1-1 rupay karke ball ke liye paise collect karte the.
Aur ye aunty aisi kayi balls ka genocide karti thi.
To aunty ke wahan hone par main bola,
“Kya hua aunty..
Aaj kya galti kardi..”
Aage kuchh bolta usse pehle mammi ki aankhon se smjh gya ki chup ho jana chahiye.
Aapka beta to acting bhi badi achhi kar leta hai.
Ab kahega isko kuchh pta nhi..”
“Kya pata nhi aunty???”
“Udit sach bata tune kiya hai?!”
“Arre ab to jabaan ko lakwa maar jayega iski..
Phone number to chabad-chabad karke suna deta hai”
“Arre hua kya hai koi batayega!!!”
Aunty held me from the collar and took me outside (pura pados dekh raha tha waise),
“Ye kisne likha”
Aap sab agar aisi locality me rahe ho jahan bijli ke khambe (pillars) ho.
To shayad aapko yaad hona chahiye ki khambe par ek hi type ka number likha hota hai
Wahan kisi ne aunty ka phone number likh diya tha...
(Mast banda tha jisne bhi likha)
Aur sirf ek khambe par nhi
Puri gali ke khambo par..
Mujhe andar hi andar to badi hasi aa rhi thi jab aunty boli,
“Pichhle ek hafte se 12 phone aa chuke ki tank khali karwana hai... Tank khali karwana hai..
Bata iske alawa kahan-kahan likha hai?”
Investigation puri karne par pata chala ki sirf 1 gali me nahi balki us MF HUSSAIN ne 3 galiyon tak aunty ka number likha hua tha.
Katgarah me mera khada hona laazmi tha.
Ab gali ke sab logo ka number yaad karne wala ladka kaun?
To shak kispe gaya?
Of course mere pe?
Saza bhi kisko mili?
Sunny deol ko ❗
Arre merko hi milegi na....
To saza ke roop me mujhe ek black paint ka dabba aur ek brush thama diya gaya aur kaha,
“Jaa Picasso ki chathi aulaad,ab saare saboot mita....
Ye khamba hi hai tera canvas…”
Meri superpower se mujhe prize me kya-kya mil raha hai iski agar list banana baithe to shayad 2021 khatam ho jaygea.
Paint ka dabba utha ke chal hi pada tha ki yaad aaya..
1 ya 1½ mahine pehle Golu aaya tha aur aunty ka recharge karana hai bolke merse number leke gaya tha .
Main garajta hua Golu ke ghar ke bahar gaya aur chillaya
“Golu bahar nikal.”
Golu to pehle hi baniyan, shorts aur brush leke tayyar tha...
Lagta hai Doctor Strange ki tarah usne pehle hi saari possibilities dekh li thi.
Us din hamne 25 khambo aur do shaklo pe black paint kiya..
Wapis aaye to apne hi maa-baap nhi pehchan rahe the...
Wo to jab mitti ke tel se dono ke muh dhule tab mammi ko pta chala ki galat bachha utha laaye.
Golu ghar jaa hi raha tha ki maine use roka aur confirm karne ke liye puchha,
Aur to kahin nhi likha tha na number!
Golu smiled and didn’t look back.
*2 DAYS LATER*
“ARRE NHI HOTA YAHAN बवासीर KA ILAAJ ❗❗”
In the shades of moon she knits poems in the most beautiful way, words decked as metaphors and love has a part to share. Sunflowers dance to her melody and rainbows shine her way. She carries sunshine in her pocket and stars under her smile, for she's and admirer if the sky. She neatly intertwines kindness in her hair and warmth in her palms , for she writes notes of hope often for the ones that fretch a frown.
@thousand_splendid_thoughts You are one of the most kindest person I have ever come across. You are beautiful inside and out. And you know your smile is contagious right? A million hugs and thank yous for always being there. I know the poem sucks but just know I love you and adore you.❤